


A Stranger in the House

by clgfanfic



Category: War of the Worlds (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 03:58:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul loses his memory...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stranger in the House

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Green Floating Weirdness #14 under the pen name Gillian Holt.

_"I honestly don't know what to do at this point.  I've tried every trick I know, the neurologist is ready to check himself in on the psych ward, and Paul's condition isn't budging."_

 

          "Move it!  Move it!"

          The three Omega Squad assault teams broke from cover, A-team reaching the side of the old airplane hanger and planting their explosives while B-team hit the doors at the south end of the building, entering and clearing out the Mortaxan resistance they encountered.  The roar of the explosion sounded, reverberating through the building in a series of metal-twisting groans.  A-team scrambled through the dust and rubble into the main hanger area, firing.

          Ironhorse and the members of C-team moved closer, closing off the perimeter and ensuring that none of the aliens escaped.  The constant rip of the Squad's Uzis sounded over the high-pitched death screams of the invading beings.

          The colonel motioned for Blackwood to stay where he was – sitting safely in the Bronco with a three-man guard.  Harrison was not happy.  As usual, he wanted to be in the thick of things so he could get a firsthand look at whatever it was the aliens were up to, but this time it was just too dangerous.  The enclosed space of the hanger, while large, was still too confined to risk the astrophysicist until it had been cleared out.

          On a whistled signal, Ironhorse and the majority of C-team surged forward to join the action.  The colonel stopped, watching the Omegans as he covered the jagged maw the explosion had blasted in the side of the hanger.  Inside he could see three glowing pillars arranged at uneven intervals in the center of the enclosed open space.  They continued to glow and pulse with a low hum, apparently oblivious to the alien death throes around them.

          Several of the creatures attempted to race from one pillar to another, but the soldiers killed them as they tried.  It was a stupid maneuver, even for the aliens, and Ironhorse wondered what was so important about the objects that the aliens were willing to risk certain death trying to get to them.

          The hum rose, the pitch taking on an unidentifiable edge that caused his teeth to grind.  He couldn't fathom what was happening, but Ironhorse felt his neck hair bristle.

          "Out!  Everybody out!" he commanded, his voice sparking action throughout the building.

          The Omegans executed a quick and orderly retreat, firing on the last aliens, killing the remainder even as they climbed free of the rubble.  Ironhorse watched the last soldier struggle forward as the pitch rose, growing sharp enough to force the corporal to clutch at his ears, his weapon dropped and forgotten.  The pillars shifted hue to a stark white and Ironhorse forced himself to ignore the agonizing sound as he grabbed the soldier, hauling him free as the man's face contorted in pain and his knees buckled.  Dragging him to his feet, the colonel shoved him forward.

          Following his troops, Ironhorse managed three charging steps before the explosion, and three beams of green-white light erupted from the building.  Caught in the intersection of two beams, his body was snapped upright several feet off the ground and held rigid until the light finally faded and Ironhorse crumbled limply to the ground.

          Omega Squad's three team leaders scrambled back to their fallen commander while Blackwood bolted from the Bronco.

          "Stein, set a perimeter.  Alverez, start a check for survivors," Norah Coleman barked out, watching as the men responded immediately to her orders, even though all of them were rubbing their heads or necks.  She wanted to reach up and massage her own pounding temples, but there wasn't time.

          Goodson, the Squad's medic, slid in next to the colonel as Blackwood reached them.  Tearing into his field kit, the corporal worked over the unconscious man.

          Derriman watched the medic for a moment, then turned to the unit's junior non-com.  "Alex, get a cleanup going."

          Stavrakos nodded and moved off, unhappy about deserting the colonel, but knowing he had work to do.

          Derriman took several steps with Stavrakos, outlining what needed to be done.

          "Corporal?" Blackwood asked Goodson anxiously.

          "Don't know yet, sir."  He looked up, calling out to Derriman.  "I need a dustoff, Sarge!"

          Derriman strode back, reaching for his radio and calling in the chopper.  "On the way," he told them.  "ETA's twelve minutes.  I'm goin' to check out that building."

          "Be careful," Coleman replied, pulling the cap off her honey blonde hair to wipe several stray strands off her forehead before pulling it back on.  "And take somebody with you!"

          As Omega Squad's platoon sergeant, she was technically in command with the colonel incapacitated, even if Derriman was their first-shirt, and she didn't want to lose him to some piece of alien hardware.

          Blackwood shifted and settled in next to Goodson and the unconscious colonel, his hands reaching automatically for Ironhorse's jacket so he could turn him over, but the medic grabbed his wrist.  "Just a sec, Dr. Blackwood.  I have to check for any back or neck injuries first."

          "Right," Harrison said, his voice tight as his eyes scanned over the limp body, then the gaping hole in the wall of the hanger.  "Sorry."

          Goodson worked quickly while Coleman remained nearby, her eyes scanning the grounds for any sign of trouble while she called the Cottage to inform Suzanne and Norton.  She glanced down when the medic cursed softly under his breath.

          "What?" she and Blackwood asked in unison.

          "I can't find any external injuries, but he's real shocky.  BP's low… real low."  Digging into his kit, Goodson pulled out the small bottle of oxygen and slipped the mask over Ironhorse's mouth.  "Pulse is weak, skin's cold, he's unconscious…"  Goodson listed the symptoms as he stripped off his field jacket and used it to elevate the colonel's legs, then dug into the field kit for the epinephrine and a syringe, administering an injection.

          Blackwood studied Ironhorse's face.  There was something more going on.  The contours of his angular face were too passive, too relaxed, and the slight pallor that clung to Paul's cheeks reminded Blackwood of nothing so much as a corpse.

          Reaching out, he gripped the sleeve of the colonel's jacket, trying to reassure himself that his friend was still alive.  "What's wrong?" he quizzed the medic.  "Why is he like this?"

          Goodson shook his head.  "I'm not sure. Dr. Blackwood.  It looks like a bad concussion, but he _didn't_ hit his head.  Whatever that light was, it must've packed one helluva punch."

          The faint wop-wop-wop of the approaching chopper eased Blackwood's rising fear, and he gripped Ironhorse's arm tighter.  "Hang in there, Paul.  Help's on the way."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison Blackwood sat silently in the Ft. Streeter waiting room, trying not to let his imagination run rampant.  It was difficult... _No_ , he corrected, _it was impossible._   They had no idea what that device was, what the aliens planned to use it for, or what it might have done to Ironhorse…

          He fell back against the tan plastic couch, ran his fingers through his rumpled light brown curls, then massaged his temples, trying to push the lingering headache further away.  Suzanne and Norton were on their way, and he wanted something to tell them.  What was taking the doctors so long?

          Across the room Coleman and Derriman were talking in low whispers, and Harrison watched as Norah nodded and left, looking like she was headed for an execution.  Derriman walked over and sat down at the other end of the couch, his eyes immediately closing in exhaustion.

          "Something wrong?" Blackwood asked.

          Derriman forced his eyes open and shook his head, smiling thinly.  "Norah and I were just havin' a discussion on the rotation schedule."  At Blackwood's perplexed expression he continued in his soft Kentucky drawl, "She wanted to stay, Doctor, but I pulled rank on her.  The colonel and I go back a long ways.  She understood.  She didn't like it, but she understood."

          Blackwood nodded.  "He inspires a special kind of loyalty, doesn't he?"

          "That's the truth of it."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Three and a half hours after Ironhorse had been admitted at Ft. Streeter, Major Lawrence Hill escorted Blackwood and Derriman into his office, gave them coffee, and collapsed into his faded denim-covered chair.  Pulling off his glasses and tossing them onto his desk, the doctor rubbed his eyes and coffee-colored face, then sighed.  "I've never seen anything like this," he started, looking puffy-eyed at Derriman.  "You say Colonel Ironhorse was caught in the blast from an explosion?"

          The sergeant nodded.  The Blackwood Project mission was strictly 'need to know,' and no matter what he wanted to tell the physician, he wasn't able – Ironhorse would have his butt if he breached security.

          "What exactly is wrong with Colonel Ironhorse?" Blackwood asked.

          The major's frustrated and disbelieving gaze shifted to the civilian.  "I don't know," was the blunt reply.  "I've tested the colonel for everything I can think of – even made up a few of my own procedures along the way – but I can't find a single thing wrong.  There is _nothing_ to explain the coma."

          "Coma?" Blackwood interrupted.

          Hill nodded, leaning back in his chair.  "I've never seen cortical activity like we're getting from Colonel Ironhorse.  Whatever's going on in his brain, it's never been seen before.  I've faxed strips all over the country, and no one's had a clue about what's going on inside his skull."

          "What exactly does that mean?" Blackwood pressed, leaning forward.

          "It means we wait and see, because we sure as hell don't know what to do," was the half-tired, half-angry reply.  The doctor steepled his fingers in front of his face.  "His vital signs are stable.  There's _nothing_ wrong with the man – in fact he's in amazingly good shape for someone who's just survived an explosive blast," he challenged again, looking pointedly at Derriman.  "But, he's in a coma, and his brain is firing off like the Fourth of July.  Right now we're trying the drugs we have to see if we can suppress the activity, but so far there's been no response.  So, we wait, gentlemen."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Harrison?"

          Blackwood swiveled around on the now familiar waiting room couch to find Major Rachael Cathcart trying to keep a folder from slipping out from under her arm.  He moved quickly to catch the maverick file, noticing Ironhorse's name printed across the tab.

          "Major, what are you doing here?"

          "General Wilson sent me," she explained.  "He thought I might be able to help."

          The last time Major Cathcart had seen Paul Ironhorse it was to determine why he'd lost eight hours of his life while captive of an alien synthetic being called Kitara.  Commanded to use an untested drug on the man, Rachael had conducted a radical de-briefing that had nearly cost Ironhorse his life and his sanity, but the information they'd discovered was invaluable.  Kitara's creators, the Qar'to, hated the Mortaxans as much as the humans fighting them, but the only reason they wanted to aid in the covert war was to preserve humans as a future food source.

          Carrying her luggage and jacket over to the couch, she released the load with a sigh, then stretched.  She looked the same as the last time Harrison had seen her.  Still a poster girl for Irish tourism – petite with short but fiery red-gold hair, pale green eyes and a healthy sprinkling of freckles across a well-tanned face.  Not to mention an Irish temper to boot.

          "God, I hate hopping flights with the Air Force," she grouched.  "How is he?"

          "No change," Blackwood said, his despairing tone telling her more about the situation than the fax she'd received.  "Suzanne's in with him at the moment."

          Rachael nodded, sweeping up the pile of stuff in her arms.  "Okay, I have an appointment with Major Hill in…"  she checked her watch.  "…fifteen minutes."  Looking back at Blackwood, her green eyes sympathetic, she added, "So, let's take a stroll so I can find my temporary office and you can tell me what _really_ happened out there."

          "Let me go get Suzanne, she's in the cafeteria."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Three days later, Rachael stalked into her borrowed office, slapped the file folder down on the desk and paced to the window.  Blackwood and Suzanne entered behind her, sliding into the two chairs across from the small oak desk.

          "We're getting nowhere," the major stated.

          "We can't give up," Suzanne countered, reaching up and massaging her shoulder and neck.  It didn't sound as forceful as she'd wanted it to.

          "No," Blackwood agreed, reaching out to pat her arm.  "We can't."

          "I'm not suggesting that we give up."  Rachael turned and leaned back against the sill.  "I'm going to call a couple experts.  I honestly don't know what to do at this point.  I've tried every trick I know, the neurologist is ready to check himself in on the psych ward, and Paul's condition isn't budging.  Maybe _they_ can give me something new to try."

          Blackwood and Suzanne exchanged worried glances.  Four days into the ordeal, and they were both rapidly headed toward complete exhaustion.  They'd tried everything they could think of: talking to Ironhorse, drugs, mild electrical stimuli, sound therapy, physical therapy… and other things that neither Blackwood nor Suzanne could follow, but none of it had helped.

          "Who are they?" Blackwood asked suspiciously.  Even after five years working with Paul he still found it difficult to trust the military completely.

          "My mentors," she explained, then added, "Both of them are civilians.  And they're cleared for high security work so we can tell them what's really going on.  Dr. Stanley Kauffman is at Summit, a Holistic Health Center near Los Angeles, and Dr. Amelia Poe is in private practice in Seattle, but she does a lot of consulting work for the Pentagon."

          Harrison grinned.  He already knew Dr. Poe.  If anyone could help, she could.  "Call them," Blackwood said.  "Anything, so long as we get Ironhorse back, whole."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Walking into the familiar hospital room, Blackwood thought it looked like a cross between Mission Control and a New Age shop.  Scattered across the top of the electrical monitors were various crystals, and a tape recorder played music he thought would be perfectly appropriate for his yoga exercises.  In two bowls herbs were burning, filling the air with a sweet but subtle aroma.  These doctors were unique, he thought with a smile.  They weren't members of the traditional mainstream medical establishment at any rate.  If Ironhorse woke with all this in his room his expression alone would be worth the fear and waiting they'd endured.  The smile faded.  _If he woke up…_

 _No, damn it, Harrison chided himself harshly.  He_ will _wake up._

          The constant beeps and whirs that Blackwood had grown accustomed to echoed louder in the room as the tape ended and clicked off, the mechanical noise chilling him.  He stepped closer to the bedside, his eyes searching the still form for any signs of movement.  It was totally unlike Ironhorse to remain so quiet, so static.  He was a man of action…

          A slightly discordant measure in the electronic music caught the astrophysicist's attention, his eyes automatically scanning the various pieces of machinery to locate the source of the anomaly.  He found it.  Above the bed a monitor broadcast the colonel's brain activity for those who could read meaning into the lines of peaks and valleys.  The coma-normal jumble of impulses had flattened, and, as Blackwood watched, they continued to fall off until some of the lines went flat.

          With a spreading cold numbness he reached forward and stabbed the call button even as the buzzer sounded down the hall.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The two doctors crowded around the head of Ironhorse's bed, their voices soft but intense.  Blackwood stood near the large window with Suzanne, his arm wrapped around her shoulder to give as well as receive comfort.  Beeps, clicks, and other sounds continued to shift, rising and falling in a strange concerto of struggle while they waited.

          Dr. Hill removed a syringe from the bedside tray and injected the contents into the IV near Ironhorse's hand, shifting the cacophony again.  Rachael leaned over with a penlight, lifting Paul's eyelids and checking his pupils.

          After a final flurry of discordant activity, the noise dropped off and Harrison and Suzanne moved a little closer.

          "That's normal…" Rachael commented disbelievingly.  "He's showing _normal_ activity on all levels…  Well, almost."

          Dr. Hill nodded.  "Looks like your mentors were right," he admitted.  "I thought it was crazy, but…"

          "Yep," Dr. Cathcart replied with a soft chuckle.  "But it worked!  Dr. Kauffman's going to be thrilled.  He wants to talk to the colonel when he wakes up. Guess it's been a long time."

          "Dr. Kauffman knows Colonel Ironhorse?" Suzanne asked.

          Rachael nodded, thinking about the man – who looked like a walking, talking teddy bear.  "That's what he said."

          "From where?" Blackwood probed, unable to stop the questions.  He simply couldn't pass up an opportunity to learn more about the man.  He loved hunting out new pieces of information.  Slowly but surely, the spectrum that was Paul Ironhorse was being filled out.

          "The San Francisco Veterans Hospital," Rachael explained.  "He treated Ironhorse in 1973 after he was released."

          "Released?" Suzanne questioned, her forehead wrinkling.

          "Ironhorse was a prisoner of war, and he sustained a nasty lower back injury. Kauffman said Paul was his first challenge as a Stateside physician – Stan had spent three years in-country at DaNang as a surgeon before that," she added.

          "I see," Harrison said, looking at the still unconscious man.  He knew that Paul had been a POW, and that he'd received a lower back injury while in the camps, but he didn't know that it had been as serious as it obviously had.  There were still things about Ironhorse he didn't know, and it bothered him.  They had been fighting together for five years, and pockets of mystery still existed.  Well, he'd ferret them all out, sooner or later.

          A low moan from the bed caught their attention.  Hill stepped back, leaving Rachael and the two Project members to handle the colonel's wake-up.  He didn't want to overwhelm the soldier.

          It was Blackwood who reached out first, resting his hand on Ironhorse's arm. "Colonel?" he called.  "Paul, can you hear me?"

          There was a second moan, and the obsidian-black eyes cracked open, blinked owlishly, then focused on the astrophysicist.

          Blackwood's face split into a huge smile.  "Thank God! You're awake!"

          "How do you feel?" Suzanne asked from the other side of the bed.  When Ironhorse's forehead wrinkled, she reached out and touched his shoulder gently.  "Paul?"

          Ironhorse's head rolled on his pillow and he stared at Suzanne for a moment, then looked back to Blackwood.  He started to speak, but the words caught in his dry throat and he choked and coughed.

          Rachael held a glass of water out for him, steadying the straw so he would take a swallow.  The black eyes studied her intently as he did.

          "I hope you enjoyed your little nap," she teased lightly, uncomfortable under the careful scrutiny, as the dark gaze, locking on her light green, continued to probe.  Her smile faded.  "Colonel?"

          "I… I don't know who you are," he said evenly.  "But I get the impression I should."

          "Paul?" Blackwood whispered, a sense of dread nearly constricting his throat.

          "Is that my name?"

          "Colonel Paul Ironhorse," Rachael told him.  "United States Army, Special Forces."

          "I see," was the quiet reply.  "What the hell happened to me?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Blackwood and Suzanne sat with Rachael around a circular table in one of the hospital's conference rooms, half-finished cups of coffee in front of them.  "He hasn't lost all aspects of his memory," she explained.  "Just personal knowledge – who he is, who his parents were, where he took his education, who his friends are, missions he's been on…  But," she continued, glancing at her notes, "his basic skills – English, math, inductive and deductive logic, synthetic reasoning, and basic stores of information, all seem to be intact.

          "However, he doesn't remember anything about the aliens, or what his current assignment is.  But he does know he's in the Army, and remembers regulations, procedures, base locations, call-signs, unit designations and the like.  Nobody's seen anything like this… ever.  It's brand new."

          "What do we do?" Blackwood asked, resting his arms on the table and leaning over them.  "He's the head of a highly trained unit whose mission is to kill aliens.  We need him."

          "I say we send him back to the Cottage," Major Cathcart said.  "Physically he's perfectly fine.  And his neurological activity is almost back to normal except for a sustained increase in theta waves and bilateral activation.  Familiar surroundings might help.  If the amnesia was the result of an internal trauma, a concussion brought about by the force of the light beam, then it should return with stimulation and time."

          Suzanne leaned back in her chair, sipped the last of her coffee, and slid the cup back onto the table.  "But we really don't know that.  There's nothing physically wrong with him, but there's a possibility that there might be psychological complications."

          "And what can we do if there are psychological complications?" Harrison asked, wishing he had a second degree in psychology like Suzanne.

          "We can start a series of tests to assess if there are any deviations from his general psych profile, but I doubt we're going to find anything," Rachael said.  "We don't really know what to look for.  It's a wait and see operation now."  She leaned back in her chair.  "There are three common scenarios for amnesia caused by physical trauma.  One, the patient regains all of his memory within twelve to seventy-two hours with no indication of memory flashes.  That's the most common. Two, the patient experiences flashes of memory, and then regains all or nearly all of their memory between three and seven days following the trauma.  Usually it's the hour or two on either side of the event that's permanently lost.  And three, the patient goes for seven to twenty-one days with little or no memory flashes, then regains all or nearly all of his memory.  Again, it's the time around the accident that's usually lost."

          "So in most cases it's a rapid return?" Suzanne asked.

          Rachael nodded.  "In physical trauma cases.  It runs differently for psychological cases.  But we don't know the reason behind the colonel's.  The aberrant brainwave activity is probably playing some role, but we just don't know what that is.  My best guess is this: he'll continue like he is, have a few memory flashes, and regain the majority of his memory at some later date, probably within a month."

          "But you can't say exactly when," Blackwood confirmed.

          "No, but I'm optimistic.  I hope some psychological prodding might help it along, too."

          The two Project members exchanged nervous glances.  In their war there was no time for wait and see.  The aliens could strike at any time, and without Ironhorse…

          "When do we take him home?" Blackwood asked.

          "How about tomorrow?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse was tired.  Sleeping for six days had affected him more than he had anticipated, and his half-completed morning run had left him shaky.  Now, sitting in his office, he tried to digest the information he'd found in the computer files.  It was overwhelming.  He was heading up a covert war against invading beings from outer space…   _Freakin' ET's._

          He rubbed his forehead.  It was impossible!  But the reports were there, the information, the pictures of alien remains, the elite Special Forces unit housed next door in the coach house.  It was real, all right, and he didn't remember a thing about it.

          For the third time in an hour he reviewed the report on the incident that had stolen his memory, but it still failed to jar lose any impressions – memory flashes Major Cathcart had called them.

          He turned to the files on each of the Project members, then to the files on each of the Omega Squad members, memorizing their names, history, and positions in the unit.  Tomorrow he'd have to go meet them and try to explain.

          The sounds of footsteps in the hallway made the colonel pause, and he looked up, expecting a knock on his door, but Blackwood only hesitated for a moment before entering his own office across the hall and closing the door behind him.      Ironhorse's lips disappeared into a frustrated line.  The situation wasn't easy on any of them, but it seemed hardest on the astrophysicist.  He shuffled the man's file to the top, and opened it.

          Harrison Blackwood had experienced a great deal of loss in his life, and Ironhorse knew he himself was just another casualty.  But there was nothing he could do, he argued silently with himself.  He didn't know these people now, even if he had once.  They were strangers, and while he didn't feel uncomfortable around strangers, he did feel uncomfortable around strangers who acted like he was family…

          But he _was_ family, to them at least.  And they were _his_ family, but they didn't _feel_ like it.  Not now, anyway.

          He shook his head, remembering the half-hidden hurt expressions when he stepped aside, or missed a joke, or didn't do something they expected.  For three days he'd read the files and tried to behave like Colonel Paul Ironhorse, but he was just a name.

          Closing the file and standing, he moved to the bookcase, reaching out to touch the bronze medal that sat on one of the shelves.  Paul Ironhorse had won it in the 1968 Olympics, but he didn't remember the crowds, the cheers, the agony of running in Mexico City.  He sighed, gaze roaming over the bric-a-brack of a lifetime, remembering skills and information, but the contexts were missing.  He was missing… missing in action…

          He shivered, then sighed and headed out to the stables.  Somehow being around the horses made him feel more comfortable.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Suzanne watched the colonel as he joined her and Blackwood in the living room.  Supper had been a quiet and strained event, but she was glad to see he hadn't retreated back into his office where he'd been spending all of his time the past week – unless he was out on the grounds with the Omega Squad or alone at the stables.  She felt a pang of jealousy, but quickly pushed it aside.  Ironhorse felt more comfortable with the soldiers because he remembered being in the military, being a colonel.  There were rules and procedures for interactions, unlike the overly-emotional, helter-shelter situation with the civilians in the main house.

          He sat down in his favorite wingback chair, and she wondered if he remembered that that was his favorite spot.  She had talked to Coleman earlier about what Paul was doing while he was with the squad, and she said he was pumping the soldiers for all the information he could get on the aliens and how they had been fighting them.

          Norah was clearly upset, but she and the other soldiers were dealing with the situation as best they could.  At least they seemed to be making progress.  The colonel was back in top physical shape, and immersed in relearning the tactics necessary to fight the Mortaxans.

          But now he looked unsettled, lost in thought…

          "Paul, are you feeling okay?" she asked before she could stop herself.  He must be getting tired of the question.

          "Fine, Suzanne," he replied, slightly irritated – sounding like the old Ironhorse.  "Just a little headache."

          Blackwood's head came up from the book he'd been reading, and he studied the colonel over the edge of the binding.  There were dark circles developing under his eyes, the hollow below the red-bronze cheekbones was sunken and the usually squared shoulders slumped.

          "Colonel, maybe you should try getting a little more rest," he suggested.

          Ironhorse scooted down in the chair, placing his feet nearer to the fireplace.  "There's just so much to get caught up on…" he said, trailing off as he gazed distractedly into the flames.

          "Pushing yourself to the edge of exhaustion isn't going to help, Paul," Suzanne argued kindly.

          "Yeah, relax a little, big guy," Norton added, rolling in on his voice-activated wheelchair, Debi trailing.

          "There's no time to relax, Mr. Drake," was the exhausted reply.

          Blackwood scowled, but kept his opinion to himself.

          Debi kept her eyes on the floor, avoiding the colonel's gaze as she made her way over to the couch and sat down next to her mother, snuggling up against her in a way she'd given up years prior.  Suzanne wrapped an arm around her daughter's shoulders and hugged her close.

          "Something wrong, Chicken?" she asked, using the old nickname.  Debi shook her head.

          Ironhorse seemed to brighten a little with the teen's arrival.  Everyone had hoped that seeing Debi would trigger some memories for the soldier, and when it hadn't no one had been more disappointed than the colonel himself.  "You know, I was wandering through the computer, and I came across something I didn't remember was there."

          "Oh?" Harrison said, watching the man closely.  He was up to something.  "And what was that, Colonel?"

          "A journal."

          "Journal?" Norton asked, beating Blackwood to the punch as he rolled over to take a position parked at the end of the couch.

          Ironhorse nodded, sitting up.  "It seems that I've been keeping a private journal – as well as filing official reports with General Wilson.  I noticed that one of the things I've been doing is giving Debi horseback riding lessons."  The teen's head came up, her blue eyes wide.  "I guess we've missed a few between the hospital and the last week, haven't we?"

          Debi brushed a strand of blonde hair off her face and nodded.  "But that's okay.  I know you're busy, and you're not really well yet."

          "Well enough for a ride," he said.  "How about tomorrow?  You can show me what you know.  I think I remember how to ride."

          Debi smiled.  "Okay."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Colonel, are we going to cut a Christmas tree this year?" Debi asked as she rode alongside Ironhorse across the Cottage property.

          He paused for a moment.  It was getting close to Christmas time…  "I don't know, Debi," he said.  "I guess that'll depend on what's going on and what everyone else thinks."

          She frowned slightly.

          "Do I usually do that?"

          She nodded.  "The last two years you did.  We all go up to the mountains and pick a tree, cut it and bring it back here and start making decorations.  Even the Omega Squad helps out."

          "Well, then," he said, hoping he sounded as confident as he wanted to.  "I guess we'll be going to cut a tree."

          They rode along in silence for a while longer before Debi worked up the courage to ask the question that had been haunting her since Paul's return to the Cottage.  "What does it feel like?  To not remember."

          He didn't answer right away.  "It feels a little scary," he admitted.  "Like when you're small and you're lost in a big store.  You know where you are, but suddenly everything seems out of place, different, frightening.  But I'm remembering… pieces, I guess.  Just images, but maybe they'll make a picture eventually."

          Debi watched the soldier, but didn't speak, wishing she hadn't asked.  It looked like it was painful for him to think about it, and she didn't want to hurt him.  She just wanted to understand what was going on better.

          "The worst part is knowing that I lost something very special with everyone here," he said wistfully.  "It leaves you feeling very… alone."

          Debi reined Jingle Belle in next to Solomon and reached out to grab the colonel's jacket sleeve.  "But you're not," she said, feeling scared.  "We _love_ you."  The last was a whisper, as she leaned over and hugged Ironhorse.

          He wrapped his arms around her shoulder and squeezed.  "I know," was the thick reply.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Norton grinned.  It wasn't often that Paul Ironhorse was flustered, but this was one of them.  "Colonel, don't you think you're overreacting just a little?"

          "Look, you know these people," he argued.  "I…  I used to, but now I don't.  I want to make this as easy as possible for everyone, but I have to have your help."

          "Why me?" Norton questioned.

          Ironhorse paused, considering what it was that had sent him to the hacker.  "I'm not sure.  Suzanne's out shopping with Debi and Blackwood's…  Well, Blackwood's, Blackwood, and I just don't think I can trust him with this."

          Norton grinned.  "Are you sure you don't remember, Colonel?"

          Ironhorse gave the man an imploring look.

          "Okay, okay," the black man said his hands coming up.  "I surrender.  Ask away and I'll do my best."

          "Great," Ironhorse said with a genuine smile.  "First, Debi.  What have I gotten her for Christmas in the past?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "That's perfect!" Debi said, pointing to a seven-foot pine standing near the top of a gentle hill.

          "It _is_ nice," Suzanne agreed, ducking in time to avoid being hit by Blackwood's snowball.  "Harrison…" she growled.

          Ironhorse and Debi moved forward to check the potential tree while the Omegans fought back their own desires for an all-out snowball fight.  After all, they could use some stress reduction, and there was just so much of the white stuff lying around, waiting…

          Suzanne scooped up a handful of the over-wet snow and compressed it into a heavy lump, then lobbed it at the astrophysicist.  Blackwood ducked, and the projectile exploded across Derriman's chest.

          With an evil grin, the sergeant reached down and scooped up a handful of white…

          "What do you think?" Debi asked as she and the colonel finished a walk around the tree.

          "It's nice," he agreed.  "Well shaped, no nests or burrows…"  he smiled at the teen.  "An excellent choice.  I'll get the ax."

          Turning to head back for the Bronco, Ironhorse was suddenly struck simultaneously by several snowballs, one skimming past his shoulder to hit Debi on the forehead.  Looking back at the girl as she pushed the slush off her hair, his black eyes narrowed.

          "Do we retaliate?" he asked.

          "Absolutely," she responded.  "This is war."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "That looks wonderful," Mrs. Pennyworth said as Harrison and Ironhorse set the tree in one of the alcoves in the living room, the dark green boughs filling the space, and the aroma of pine drifting through the house.  "But you all look like you could use something hot to drink.  Did it rain?"

          Suzanne and Debi giggled.  After the snowball war they were all casualties of flushed cheeks, damp clothes, and icy fingers.  There had been no clear winner, but each of the soldiers and civilians had suffered direct attacks by thrown snowballs and occasional snow stuffing by a hearty soul who chanced a direct hit to shove a handful of the ammunition down someone's back.

          "No, but we had a great snowball fight," Debi explained.

          "I see," she smiled.  "Well, I'll go get you something that will warm you up.  _You_ need to get out of those clothes before you catch your death."

          The Project members nodded sheepishly and headed for their respective showers.

          "Mmm, that smells wonderful," Suzanne said a few minutes later, as she walked into the kitchen as Mrs. Pennyworth was pouring.

          "It's hot spiced cider," she told the microbiologist.  "Oh, and cocoa for Debi."

          Suzanne grinned.  "Good idea."

          "How was he?" the older women asked, her voice dropping automatically.

          With a shrug, Suzanne accepted a cup and took a sip.  "That is good," she complimented.  "He seemed to enjoy himself, but nothing triggered any memories like we were hoping.  At least, I don't think so.  There are times I think he's remembering something, but he won't talk about it."

          The housekeeper sighed.  "He seems so… alone, I suppose.  I wish there was something we could do."

          "We all feel that way, Mrs. P," Suzanne told her with a light hug around her shoulders.

          "I know, dear.  I just worry about what will happen to him."

          Suzanne scowled faintly.  She'd been avoiding thinking too much about what might happen if Paul didn't get his memory back.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Blackwood watched the colonel stalk out of the Cottage.  He headed for Ironhorse's office to see what had happened.  Entering, he found Major Cathcart seated at Ironhorse's desk, rubbing her eyes.

          "Trouble?" he asked.

          She looked up and smiled thinly.  "No.  He's just frustrated, and so am I."

          Blackwood eased into a chair.  "I know.  And it's getting closer to Christmas, which isn't helping."

          She nodded, leaning back in the chair to stretch.  "I received a call from General Wilson.  It seems that the Joint Chiefs aren't happy about Paul's lack of improvement.  They want him back in Washington for a complete work-over."

          Blackwood felt a cold shock pass through his gut.  "What exactly does that mean?"

          Rachael caught the fear in the astrophysicist's blue eyes.  "If you're worried that this is going to be a repeat of the debriefing after Kitara, don't.  That will _not_ happen.  It just means that Dr. Poe and I will set up and do a complete battery to determine what exactly he does and does not remember, and then the Joint Chiefs will have to make a decision on whether or not he's returned to duty."

          "Major, we _need_ him here."

          "I realize that he's your friend, Harrison, but we have to be realistic.  He doesn't remember.  If he had to go out in the field he could easily make a mistake that could get you or his squad killed.  He knows that and so do you."

          "What did he say about this trip to Washington?"

          "He agreed."

          Blackwood's teeth ground together.  "Then why was he so upset when he left?"

          "They want him to go now, before Christmas."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse sat in front of the computer monitor and read the section of the journal he'd been keeping which richly detailed all of his experiences, military and private, since arriving at the Cottage in July of 1988.  His developing relationship with each of the Project members was described and elaborated on throughout the entries, as well as his own fears and concerns sprinkled in.  It could be the basis of a vivid history of the covert war – if they won – but the historical significance escaped him.

          Tomorrow he left for Washington.  The thought chilled him.  There was a good chance he would not be returning to the Cottage, to the people Paul Ironhorse named friends and family.

          He switched screens and scanned the file on his replacement.  Lt. Colonel Craig Windjoy, Army Special Forces.  Vietnam veteran, and an occasional operative for the government.  Craig and Paul were good friends, even if Ironhorse couldn't remember meeting the man, serving with him in Vietnam, and nearly getting killed extracting him after Windjoy had completed an undercover assignment for the feds in the Golden Triangle.  The handsome, angular bronze face didn't even look familiar.

          Paul's eyes narrowed as he stared at the man's picture.  With his teeth grinding, he tried to remember something… anything about the man.  Craig Windjoy was one of Ironhorse's closest friends outside those at the Cottage.  The journal said so.  But he couldn't remember what his face looked like without the photo, the way his voice sounded, or a single fact about the man's past, despite having shared some of it.

          He sighed heavily and stabbed a key to shift the screen back to the journal.  At least the Project would be in good hands.  If nothing else, he trusted his other self's judgment when it came to protecting Blackwood and the others.  If only he could trust himself…

          It was time he added his last entry to the journal.  He paused, wondering what Paul Ironhorse would think when, if, he ever got the chance to read the entries he'd been making…

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Three hours later, Paul finished typing, exited the journal, and turned off the computer.  Rubbing his eyes, he leaned back in the chair and searched unsuccessfully for any memories of the events he'd read about earlier.  The journal had revealed a long series of life-altering events, but he couldn't retrieve even the faintest glimmer of winning a bronze medal – although he realized he remembered how to throw a javelin, run the hurdles and perform other physical skills required of a decathalete.  There was something there, at the edge of his thoughts, something about a coyote, but that didn't make any sense.  But what did that matter?

          He couldn't recall being held as a prisoner of war, tortured, released, and confined to the VA hospital for four months to heal – or the death of Katie Murphy.  But he remembered how to withstand torture, how to survive off the land, how to pilot a helicopter.  To what end?

          His life in Delta Force was a shadow, but again the skills remained vivid, with only the people and events shrouded in black forgetfulness.  The disaster at Desert One… the dead at Grenada… and now aliens… aliens who had nearly killed him and the others on several different occasions… aliens from outer space who had taken his family away from him, who had taken away his _life_.  Not for the first time he wondered if it wouldn't have been better for all of them if he had simply died in the coma.

          There was nothing solid, nothing he could grab onto and understand, just occasional feelings, images, and certainties he didn't understand.  His mind was a vast expanse of… nothing…

          _Who am I?  Who the hell am I?_

          Was he nothing more than his memories?  Wasn't there something more to a man?  The Project members had all commented on how he acted completely 'himself' from time to time – the unspoken being that he was a stranger otherwise… Him-self… self… what was a self?  He?

          Nothing.

          But he felt alive.  Thinking, feeling, doing.  He was _someone_ , but not the man he was.  Could they be that different, or that much the same?  He was Paul Ironhorse and, at the same time, not Paul Ironhorse…

          He sighed, cursed softly in Cherokee, then snorted.  He remembered his native language, but not his parents.  Remembered the names and locations of the small towns in Oklahoma and North Carolina where he had grown up, but not the names of his sisters and brothers.  Remembered the history of the Cherokee people, but not a single face from his childhood.

          His fists contacted soundly with the polished oak surface of his desk.  "Damn it!"

          The door cracked open and Blackwood looked in.  "Colonel, are you all right?"

          "No!"

          The scientist slipped into the room, pulling the door closed behind him.  "Want to talk?"

          "What's the point?" Ironhorse countered, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration.  He could feel the ever-present headache beginning to build again.  It was no wonder he couldn't sleep, it seemed to be getting progressively worse, like it wanted to wear him down under an onslaught of grinding pain.

          "You can't give up," Harrison told the soldier, walking over to lean against the edge of the desk.  When Ironhorse didn't look up, he took a deep breath and hoped what he said was the right thing.  "Paul, you told me once that there were nights a million nights long.  This is one of those nights, I know.  God knows I've had my share, but, you were right.  The mist does clear, Colonel.  And we do… we will win."

          Ironhorse glanced up, a sad smile on his face.  "That doesn't sound like something I'd say, Doctor."

          Blackwood grinned.  "Believe it or not, it does.  You used that speech on me to break through one of my darker depressions, and believe me, I'm much better at depression than you are.  I've had more practice, so believe it."

          Ironhorse's mood lifted slightly, the headache finally receding into the back of his head where he could ignore it, and he leaned forward in the leather chair, motioning for Blackwood to take a seat as well.  "I'll remember that, Harrison," he said, then changed the conversation before Blackwood could inquire further about what had upset him.  "Colonel Windjoy will be here day after tomorrow."

          Blackwood nodded, but folded his arms across his chest, saying, "I know.  And I'll do my best to give the man a fair chance, but I don't like the idea of you leaving."

          "I don't have any recourse.  I've been ordered to Washington for a formal review.  If the Joint Chiefs decide that I'm a detriment to this Project I'll be removed.  It's as simple as that."

          "No, Colonel.  It's _not_ that simple," Harrison argued, pushing himself out of the chair and pacing across the office.  "With or without your memories, Paul, you're our friend.  And none of us wants to see you locked away in some institution. It's not right, and it's not fair."

          Ironhorse shook his head.  "I doubt that's going to happen, Doctor."

          Blackwood paced to the window, and leaning against the immaculate sill, stared out at the December landscape.  The grounds were brown and grey… dead…

          He forced himself to remember the promise of life that still existed, waiting for spring.  "You told me once that this Project is classified above Top Secret."

          "It is."

          "And you honestly think they're going to allow you to run around with the memories of where we are, who we are, and what we're doing locked inside your head?"  he asked softly.  "Would you?"

          There was a long moment of silence before Ironhorse responded.  "They'll do what they have to protect you and the others, Doctor.  You don't have to worry about security."

          Blackwood spun around to face the Cherokee.  "Damn it, Paul, it's not the Project I'm concerned about, it's _you!_   Is that so hard for you to understand?  You're not some military watchdog! You're a part of this team, my friend… my best friend."

          Ironhorse stood with a tired sigh, but looked away from the troubled blue eyes that regarded him with open affection and concern, a flicker of a talk flashing through his mind, too fast to grasp it.

          "I appreciate that, Harrison, and I understand what you're saying, but I don't have an option.  I have my orders."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Suzanne wandered around the living room, gathering up the empty ornament boxes and returning them to the large storage box.  It had taken her, Debi, Norton, and Mrs. Pennyworth a little over an hour to decorate the pine.  With Harrison and the colonel suspiciously absent, the event had lost its appeal for all of them, especially Debi.

          Looking up, she was surprised to find Ironhorse watching her with a wistful expression.  "I'm sorry, Paul, I didn't hear you come in."

          "Not your fault," he said softly, walking over to help her round up the last few boxes.  "And I'm sorry Blackwood and I didn't make it in to help with the tree.  We were discussing— We were having an argument."

          "I know.  We could hear the growling all the way down the hall.  We managed," she reassured him, fitting the last box in.  "It sounded a little angry."

          He looked back at her, catching the concern in the hazel eyes.  "At first, but we've worked it out.  I know this is hard on all of you.  I've tried to be the man you knew, but—"

          "Paul, you don't have to try and be anything, or anyone you're not," she said, reaching out to rest her hand on his arm.

          He nodded, turned away and walked over to the fireplace.  Kneeling down, he used the poker to settle the nearly consumed logs and added another on top of the glowing orange wood.  Sitting back on the floor, he stared into the leaping flames, the light casting haunted red shadows across his angular features.

          Suzanne closed the box and walked over to take a seat next to the soldier.  "Paul?" she whispered.  "Do you—?"

          He looked away from the flames, meeting her gaze.  "I don't have a choice," he told her, guessing what was on her mind.  "I have my orders."

          "I know," was the whispered response.  Suzanne looked to the safe neutrality of the fire.  "It's just that I can't understand why they can't wait until _after_ Christmas."

          "They feel that it's in the best interest of the Project to see me now."

          "Don't defend them, Paul," she snapped.  "We've worked hard, damn hard, for the last five years, and every time something's come up they've treated you like— like—"

          "Suzanne, please," he said softly.  "I know it's hard.  I'd change it if I could.  I'm sorry—"

          "It's _not_ your fault."

          He gave a ragged sigh.  "I don't know.  Maybe this is best.  I just want…"  He trailed off, shaking his head.

          Reaching out a hand, she rested it lightly on his arm.  This time he didn't move away.  "What do you want, Paul?"

          "I'm tired," he said softly.  "I'm confused, and I don't know what the hell to do.  I've tried and tried to remember something, _anything_ , but I can't.  I can't lead the squad like this.  I was running exercises this morning, and I damn near killed Coleman because I couldn't remember a basic procedure _I_ instituted!"  He stopped, then continued in a softer tone.  "I'm afraid I'll eventually do something wrong.  It's a miracle the aliens haven't done something by now, and I'm not qualified to be in the field.  I won't get someone killed because I'm too damn proud to step down."

          "You'd never do that," she assured him.  "I know you well enough to know that, even if you don't."

          The muscles along his jaw pulsed in frustration.  "But I'm _not_ the same man you knew," he hissed.  "I'm not Paul Ironhorse.  I don't know who the hell I am!"

          Her fingers curled into his shirt sleeve.  "Listen to me.  Just because you've lost some of your memories doesn't mean you're a completely different person.  Those memories are still there, you just can't get to them.  You're still Paul Ironhorse."

          "Am I?" he asked, his voice soft and pain-filled.  "I— I feel like I'm a person, but I don't have a name.  I'm not who I was, I—"

          "Paul, you _are_ ," she said, her arm wrapping around his shoulders.

          "I'm not saying this right," he said, his voice catching.

          She watched his chin twitch and his lips disappeared into the familiar thin line, the frustrated, hurt expression achingly familiar to the microbiologist.

          "I've read all the files, all the journals, everything I could find.  I know everything there is to know about Paul Ironhorse, but he isn't _me_.  I didn't grow up in a boarding school, I didn't go to Vietnam, I wasn't a POW, I didn't lose a squad of men to the aliens, I don't even know what the damn things look like…  I know how to do things.  I know facts and figures.  I know all of you, but just barely.  When Blackwood jokes I don't know if I should take him seriously or not.  When Debi cries I don't know if I should give her a hug or not, and when you're sitting here like this I don't know if it would be right to kiss you or not.  I'm not Paul Ironhorse."

          Pulling back, she considered his words.  "I don't know what to say," she admitted.  "I watch you, and I see the same Paul I always have – a bright, caring, gentle, efficient man.  A soldier, a warrior, and a friend.  You move the same way.  You talk and react the same, but you're right.  You aren't the man I've known for five years.  A part of you is, but there's another part I don't know.  But we can all learn again, Paul.  We can make something new, together, all of us."

          He glanced sideways at Suzanne, a small crooked smile lifting the side of his mouth.  "Using that psychology degree, Doctor?"

          She gave him a sour look, then smiled.  "No.  I'm being honest."

          He looked back to the fire.  "This is going to sound funny, but when it comes right down to it, I'm afraid.  There's a part of me that's fighting to get my memory back, but there's another part that's holding back."

          "Why?" she prompted.

          "This might sounds strange, but if I _do_ remember, if Paul Ironhorse returns— I'm not him.  I'll die."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse finished packing his travel bag, then checked his uniform in the mirror hanging on his closed door.  At least he remembered all of the subtleties of wearing the Class-A's, even when he'd worn them last—

          That was new!

          He had added information!

          He searched for more, but found nothing.  He sighed, hoping he wouldn't look as nervous as he felt when he appeared before the Joint Chiefs later in the day.

_General Wilson and Major Cathcart will be there, and they'll probably have me locked up in some private mental institution by evening._

          A soft knock on his door told him Debi had finally worked up the courage to come say her goodbyes.  He knew this was particularly hard on the sixteen year-old.  She'd grown up at the Cottage over the last five years, at least he hoped she had.

          "Come in," he called, stepping back.

          The teen pushed the door open and leaned against the frame, her blue eyes carefully averted.

          "What can I do for you?" he asked, trying to fight down his own growing panic.  He didn't want to leave these people.  He didn't want to abandon the fight against the aliens.  He didn't want to hurt Debi, but there was nothing he could do to change the situation.

          "It's almost Christmas," she mumbled.

          "Five days," he confirmed, grabbing a stack of file folders off his bed and packing them into the side pocket of his bag.

          "Will you be back before Christmas?"

          He lifted the travel bag off the bed and set it on the floor by the door.  "I hope so."  Her chin quivered, and he knew she was close to tears.  "I'll do my best," he promised.

          The first tears escaped, running down her cheeks as she looked up at him, and without a word engulfed him in a tight hug.  "I don't want you to go."

          "I know, Debi," he soothed, returning the hug and patting her shoulder reassuringly.  "I wish I could wait until after Christmas, but I can't.  It'll be fine," he told her.  "Really."

          "Will you write to me, even if you can't come back?" she asked, stepping back and wiping her eyes.

          "I promise.  If I can," he said.  "But, if I can't, you have to remember, I'll be thinking about you, and the others.  I'll miss you, and I won't stop caring."

          "I love you, Colonel," she whispered, then turned and fled down the hall.

          "I love you, too, Debi," he whispered into the still air.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "What do you think?" Norton asked quietly as they watched the car head down the driveway.

          Harrison watched the Omega Squad as they walked dispiritedly back to the coach house, minus Derriman, who was driving Ironhorse to Ft. Streeter.

          Blackwood was still angry at Ironhorse for not allowing the Project members to accompany him to the base, but, he reconsidered, that would've only made it more difficult for all of them.  Ironhorse was gone.

          "I don't know, Norton," he replied.  "But if they try anything, I'll— I'll go public if that's what it takes."

          "Harrison," Suzanne chided, "you know you can't do that.  And even if you did, and we got Paul back, how do you think he'd feel about the tactics?"

          Blackwood folded his arms and glared in reply.

          "He'll come back," Debi said, her blue eyes clear as she stared down the now empty road.  "I know it."

          Suzanne wrapped an arm around her daughter's shoulders and directed her back toward the house.  "So do I," she agreed.  "So let's not worry."

          "Right," Norton concurred, pulling his wheelchair around and rolling after them.  "He'll be home.  And I've got a couple of new games I'll embarrass him with…  And, if he still doesn't remember anything, I can pull out all the old ones and kick his tail with those, too!"

          "Norton," Suzanne said.  "That's cruel.  He didn't like losing the first time."

          "I know," the black hacker grinned.  "Isn't it wonderful?"

          Blackwood listened to the anxious babble, then trailed after them.  One way or another Paul Ironhorse was coming back to the Cottage.  He'd see to that, one way or another.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison prowled anxiously through the living room while Norton, Suzanne, and Debi tried vainly to ignore him.  After his fifth pass in less than a minute Suzanne stood up, blocking his path and bringing the scientist to a stop.

          "What?"

          "Harrison, please, sit down."

          The astrophysicist gave her a rueful smile and headed for the colonel's wing-backed chair and sank down, exhausted.  "I can't believe he's coming home today," he muttered.  "I don't get it.  It's only been two days."

          "It's weird, that's what it is," Norton added.  "I think it means trouble.  But, don't ask me why.  Guess I've been hanging around the DOD computers too much lately."

          The sound of a vehicle pulling up in the parking area between the Cottage and the coach house brought all four Project members to their feet and the rush for the door was resolved when Debi gripped the knob and barreled first from the house.

          The driver, a corporal who looked to be about Debi's age, opened the two passenger doors, Ironhorse and General Wilson climbing out of the official olive green sedan.  While the young man walked over to greet several of the Omegans who had exited at the sound of the car, the two officers managed to make it halfway to the Cottage before they were engulfed.

          "Colonel!" Debi exclaimed, welcoming him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

          Ironhorse returned the gesture, but looked decidedly uncomfortable about it with Wilson looking on.

          Suzanne gave Paul a quick kiss on the cheek, then hugged the general.  "Uncle Hank, we weren't expecting you, especially so soon."

          Norton gave Ironhorse a big smile and a threatened punch to the arm.  "But as long as you brought back our prodigal Colonel, we _don't_ mind…  This time."

          "He is back, isn't he?" Blackwood asked Wilson, extending his hand to Ironhorse, who shook it.

          "Yes.  The Joint Chiefs are taking our suggestion, for the time being," Wilson said, but there was an edge to his voice that escaped none of them, including Ironhorse.  "Now, why don't we go inside and I'll explain."

          "Excuse me, sir, but I'm going to check in with Sergeant Derriman," Ironhorse said.

          "Fine, Colonel.  Why don't you meet us in the living room when you're finished?  I'm looking forward to a cup of Mr. Drake's latest blend."

          "Yes, sir," Ironhorse said, nodding and heading off for the coach house.

          Wilson and the others turned for the Cottage.  Once there Debi excused herself, and headed for her room.  She knew the adults wouldn't want her listening, and from the look on Harrison's face, there was going to be a argument.  A big one.

          Taking the stairs two at a time to her second floor bedroom, Debi closed the door and walked over to plop down on her bed.  After three bounces she stood and went to the window that opened onto the back yard.  From the glass she could just see the edge of the coach house and the path that led to the rear of the stables.  While she watched, she heard a door open and close, and saw Ironhorse headed down the path to the stables.  Grabbing her jacket, she headed downstairs and out the front door.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "What's happening?" Blackwood demanded, refusing to take a seat.

          Mrs. Pennyworth carried in a tray filled with coffee cups and a plate of cinnamon cookies, left them on the small table in the corner and prudently returned to the kitchen.  Wilson levered off the couch and corralled a cup and one of the sweets.

          "Doctor, I know Colonel Ironhorse is your friend, but I am not your enemy."

          Blackwood refused to comment, anger and fear eradicating his already anemic tact.

          Suzanne shot the astrophysicist a scolding look, then stood and joined her uncle at the table.  "We know that, Uncle Hank.  We're just worried about Paul."

          "I know, Suzanne," he said, patting her arm before he moved back to the couch and sat down.  "And believe it or not, so am I."

          "Why?" Norton quizzed.

          "Because he's showing no improvement," he said.  "Oh, Major Cathcart and Dr. Poe were able to show that he is experiencing memory flashes, and he has acquired some new bits and pieces, but nothing substantial."

          "General, we have no idea what that device was," Blackwood argued.

          "I realize that, Doctor, but, please, you have to understand our position as well.  Colonel Ironhorse is not the same man he was before the incident, he—"

          "The hell he isn't!" Harrison exploded as the front door opened and Debi left, slamming it behind her.  He took a deep breath and continued more calmly.  "He might not remember things, General, but he still knows how to fight.  How to fight the aliens."

          "I disagree, and so does the Colonel."  Wilson set his coffee cup on the small round table at the end of the couch.  "I'm sorry, Doctor, but there is no alternative. Colonel Windjoy will take command of the Omega Squad on December 26th.  If any activity should occur before that time, Sergeants Coleman and Derriman will be in command."

          "But what about Paul?" Suzanne asked, frictioning her suddenly cold hands together.

          "Colonel Ironhorse will remain here," Wilson said softly, making it clear that there was more to it he wasn't telling them.

          "He can stay, but he can't go out with the squad?" Drake questioned.  "That's gonna drive the man crazy."

          "It will take an… adjustment," Wilson agreed.  "I'm sure Colonel Ironhorse can find ways of making himself useful to this Project that do not include direct military intervention."

          "Like what?" Blackwood snapped, storming across the room.  "Is he going to wash test tubes?  Or maybe tend the grounds?  Or maybe we can just assign him to clean the stables!"

          "Doctor," Wilson snapped, standing.  "I don't like this any better than you do, but those are the colonel's orders, and mine.  From now on, Colonel Ironhorse is confined to the grounds.  He will not participate in any military activity, and he will not be left unattended."

          "You're treating him like he's a prisoner!" Suzanne protested.

          Wilson looked down at his niece.  "I'm afraid that's exactly what he is."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Colonel?" Debi called, entering the stable. 

          When there was no answer she walked down the row of stalls until she reached the last box where Jingle Belle was quietly munching on her hay.

          "Where's the Colonel?" Debi asked the pretty mare.  The horse looked up and snorted, happy to see the teen.

          "Out here, Debi," came Ironhorse's voice.

          Stepping outside she found the soldier leaning against the fence, watching the large dapple grey gelding as he loped around the corral.

          "I'm… I'm glad you're home," she said softly, stepping up to stand alongside him.

          Ironhorse nodded.  "Me, too."

          "Really?"

          He looked into the girl's bright blue eyes.  "Yes," he said, smiling.  "Really."

          "And you're staying?"

          He nodded.  "Yes, Debi, I'm staying.  Now, let's get back to the Cottage before General Wilson sends out a search party."

          She nodded and followed him back to the house, wondering why he sounded so sad.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Mrs. Pennyworth, that was a excellent meal," Wilson said, setting aside his knife and fork.

          "Thank you, General," the older housekeeper said.  "I wanted Colonel Ironhorse's welcome home to be special."

          "It was wonderful," Paul assured her, half-embarrassed.  It was hard to remember just how much these people did care about him.

          "As I was saying," Wilson said, looking across the table to Blackwood.  "After the holidays, Major Cathcart and Dr. Poe will be coming out to Ft. Streeter so they can continue working with Paul.  They're the best we have.  If anyone can figure this out, they can."

          "Why don't you go into the living room?" Mrs. Pennyworth suggested when an uncomfortable silence settled over the gathering.  "Debi and I will bring in some coffee."

          "Sounds fine," Wilson said, standing and leading the way.

          When they were settled, talk continued concerning the new constraints on Ironhorse.  Once they were made clear, Wilson said his goodbyes and with Debi and Suzanne accompanying him to the car, left for Ft. Streeter.

          Norton excused himself and headed down to his basement lab to complete the last of his wrapping, leaving Blackwood and Ironhorse alone.

          The fireplace snapped, and Ironhorse moved over to tend the fire while Harrison stood in front of the Christmas tree, watching the man's reflection in one of the silver bobbles. Several minutes passed in silence before Blackwood cleared his throat and spoke.

          "I'm glad you're back, and what the Army doesn't know won't hurt them.  I'm sure Colonel Windjoy—"

          "Colonel Windjoy will follow his orders, Harrison.  Or I will personally send a report to the Joint Chiefs."

          "But?" Harrison paused, uncertain.  This was not the same man he'd known for five years.  He reconsidered.  No, this is exactly the same Ironhorse…  "I know.  I was completely out of line, Colonel.  I'm sorry."

          Looking over his shoulder, Ironhorse gave him a lopsided grin.  "Don't be, Doctor, it's exactly what I thought you'd say, so I must be getting better, or at least I'm getting used to you."

          Harrison grinned back.  "I'm just glad you made it back before Christmas," he said, sitting down on the carpet alongside the soldier.

          "Just barely," was Ironhorse's equally relieved reply.  "Tomorrow's Christmas Eve, but I had my doubts.  Major Cathcart was… impressive.  And General Wilson and Dr. Poe backed her up.  It's thanks to them that I'm back here at all.  And it is getting better.  I'm remembering more pieces.  Maybe it'll all fall together.  At least the damned headaches are finally gone."

          "But you're a prisoner," Blackwood argued softly.  "That's not right, Paul.  I told you a long, long time ago that this wasn't a prison, and you weren't my keeper. I don't want to be yours."

          "It beats the alternatives, Harrison," was Paul's whispered reply.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Blackwood and the rest of the Project members sat around the table, forcing themselves to eat something of the breakfast that Mrs. Pennyworth had prepared.  They continued to glance at the colonel's empty chair, growing more and more uncomfortable.

          "Good morning."  Ironhorse walked in and sat down, reaching absently for the coffee and pouring himself a cup.

          "Good morning," Suzanne said, her face pinching into a mask of concern.  "Are you feeling all right?"

          "Uh?" the soldier asked, glancing up to meet her gaze.

          "You look—"

          "Sick," Norton finished.  "What's up, big guy?"

          Ironhorse shook his head.  "I'm fine, Norton."  Ignoring the food, he sipped on the coffee while the others watched him carefully.

          "Are you sure?" Harrison asked.  "Headache?"

          "Uh, no," was the calculated reply.  He stood with the coffee cup.  "If you'll excuse me?"  They watched him head off in the direction of the living room.

          "Something's going on, and I'm going to find out what it is," Blackwood said, rubbing the napkin across his mouth and tossing it down on the table.

          "Go easy, Harrison," Suzanne said.

          The man nodded as he left.

          "Mom?"

          Suzanne looked across at her daughter.  "I don't know, Chicken."

          "Me, either," Norton said.  "But I think I'll head for cover, just in case."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Paul?" Harrison said, stalking into the living room.

          Ironhorse sat on the hearth, his head buried in his hands.

          Kneeling down next to the soldier, Harrison fought back his impulse to reach out and rest a hand on Paul's back.

          "Paul, what's wrong?"

          "I— Confused…  I—"  Looking up at Blackwood, Paul's forehead folded into a row of wrinkles.  "I think I remember," he whispered.

          Harrison's face lit up with a broad smile.  "That's wonderful!"

          Ironhorse shook his head.  "No, I— Harrison, please, leave me alone for a while."

          The smile faded, and he stood, reluctantly leaving Paul in front of the fire.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          He saved the last entry to his journal, then turned the computer off.  Closing his eyes, Ironhorse lowered his head, resting his forehead on his folded arms.  A soft knock on his door brought his head back up.  It was a miracle it had taken him this long…

          "Come in."

          Blackwood opened the door slowly and looked in, unsure if he'd be welcomed.  "Uh, hi."

          "It's all right, Harrison.  Have a seat.  I'm sorry it took so long, but there was a lot I wanted to get down before I lost it."

          "I understand, I think."  Sliding into the chair, Blackwood's gaze roamed over the soldier.  He looked okay, but the black eyes held a particular haunted look that Harrison hadn't seen before.  "Paul?"

          "It's back," he said softly, his head dipping slightly.

          "All of it?"

          There was a nod.  "Yes.  Everything.  Even what happened after I woke up from the coma."

          "Thank God."  Harrison leaned back, the tension of the morning finally falling away as his body relaxed.  "And the headache?"

          "Still gone."

          "What happened?" Blackwood asked.  "How—"

          Ironhorse shook his head and raised his hand to fend off the barrage of questions.  Standing, he walked to the window, looking outside as he continued.  "When I woke up this morning it was like— Like there were two different people living in my head, each with his own set of memories.  Both incomplete."

          Blackwood shivered and folded his arms across his chest.  Suzanne had told him about Paul's comment on feeling like he would die when he regained his memory.  "And were there?" he prompted gently.  "Were there two different people?"

          "No."

          "No?"

          Ironhorse turned to face his friend.  "My… other self was… me.  But the memories— It was like they were… parallel.  I couldn't put them together right away.  That's what was so disconcerting.  It was like watching a movie made with a double exposure.  I couldn't get it to focus."

          "And now you have?"

          A second nod, and Ironhorse stepped closer, leaning against the polished surface of the desk, needing the comfort of the physical proximity.  "Yes, but—"

          "What?"

          The dark eyes gazed back out the window.  "It's crazy, but… I'll miss my other self," he said softly.  "He was a lot more…"  The obsidian gaze fell on Blackwood's blue.  "Innocent, I guess."

          Harrison stood and gripped the Colonel's shoulders.  "No, Paul.  He still is innocent.  He's that part of you that hasn't been destroyed by everything that's happened.  He's still there, inside you.  I know.  Believe me."

          Ironhorse nodded.  Stepping away a little awkwardly, he allowed himself a lopsided grin.  "I suppose it's time we told the others."

          "Welcome home, Paul."  Harrison grinned and stepped forward, giving the man a quick but heartfelt hug.  "We couldn't have asked for a better Christmas present."

          "I can think of one…" Ironhorse responded.  "…an end to the war."

          Blackwood nodded.  "Maybe next year," he said, following Paul out of the office.  Maybe… if they were lucky.


End file.
